


The End

by lifeofsnark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, it's HEAVEN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofsnark/pseuds/lifeofsnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean finally go to heaven for good. Death gives them the option to choose between individual heavens or sharing one for eternity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

The coroner circled the body on the cold steel table in front of him, a clipboard pressed against his belly, rotund from too many beers and microwave dinners consumed in front of the television. He clicked on his digital voice recorder, thinking fondly of the days of cassette tapes.

“John Doe One. Male, mid-thirties, brown hair, green eyes.” He stood on the right side of the cadaver, its skin mottled blue in death. “Star tattoo over heart. Evidence of extensive physical trauma- cluster of what appear to be small caliber bullet wounds to the abdominals and obliques between three and five years old. Numerous lacerations to the forearms and biceps ranging from freshly scabbed to eight years old.  Many of these lacerations appear to be defensive wounds. There is what appears to be a fresh stab wound entering the thoracic cavity, as well as many shallow cuts to the upper chest and arms.”

~~

Dean came back to himself- that was the best way to describe it, he knew he wasn’t laying in the grass anymore, but he wasn’t sure where exactly he was currently- with a jolt. Without opening his eyes, he tried to pick out what information he could. He was sitting on something comfortable, feet on the floor. His ribs didn’t hurt when he inhaled; and there was some sort of firm material under his fingertips.

“I know you are conscious, Dean,” came a voice, the consonants explicitly enunciated, his accent almost British, as though he had immigrated to the States a long, long time ago.

Dean opened his eyes and recognized the face of Death.

~~

The coroner walked to the mounted light-board on the wall. It began to glow with a low hum, the greyscale X-rays clipped to the top becoming clear. The coroner sighed before continuing with his preliminary examination. “Remodeled compound fracture to the tibia, approximately three years old, professionally set. Numerous fractures and breaks to toes and phalanges; most appear to have been ignored or set at home. Remodeled fractures to the lower ribs, left and right, ranging from time of death to eight years.”

The coroner paused the recorder and slowly crossed the room to his desk. Grabbing the rolling chair, he wheeled it over to the X-rays, one wheel squealing across the cement floor. Once settled in the chair, the aging man looked up and continued on. “Remodeled fractures to the jaw, the C1 and C2, zygomatic…” -in the flickering fluorescent light of surgical lamps, the county Medical Examiner droned on.

~~

“So we meet again,” Dean drawled, looking around the small room. He and Death were sitting in dark wingback chairs, a fire flickering on the edge of the wool rug. There was an empty chair to Dean’s right.

“So we do,” said Death, slowly folding his fingers together, elbows on the arms of the chairs. “For what will be the last time.”

Dean let that sink in. “Where’s Sam?” he asked finally.

Reaching into the interior breast pocket of his jacket, Death pulled out an intricate gold pocket watch.

~~

The coroner removed his glasses and balanced them on the hard chest of the body in front of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes crinkling in the corners. His head was beginning to ache, the throb in his temples matching the protests of the fallen arches in his feet.

Replacing his spectacles, he checked the battery on his recorder before beginning once more. “John Doe Number Two. Male, early thirties, hazel eyes and light brown hair. Appears to be in prime physical condition. He has a similar cluster of small caliber gunshot wounds to the abdomen and ten to fifteen lacerations along his inner arm- defensive wounds. Similar to John Doe 1, the scars on this man are raised and knotted; these wounds were not professionally treated. Fresh injuries include bruising to ribs 8 through 10, a laceration to the right oblique, and a gunshot- large caliber- to the upper chest.”

~~

Sam blinked his eyes open, and the first thing his conscious brain noticed was Dean- Dean was next to him, relaxed in a deep burgundy chair, a fire flickering beside him. Sam turned his head, and there was Death.

“Hello, Sam Winchester. Now we are all together again. Isn’t that nice.”

~~

“X-rays of John Doe Two, March 14, 2016. Numerous fractures to the skull along the occipital and parietal lobes, some fully remodeled, others sustained at time of death. Frontal lobe injuries that appear to be over a decade old, broken humerus and clavicle, more than a dozen remodeled fractured and breaks of the phalanges.”

Preliminary inspections complete, the coroner rolled his chair back to the desk, the old plastic wheels echoing in the otherwise empty morgue. After a pause and a brief internal debate, the man ponderously bent down to unlock the bottom drawer of his metal desk. He slowly pulled out a heavy flask and unscrewed the top, the metal threads of the stopper squeaking. He took a slow pull of the scotch, feeling the liquid burn all the way down his esophagus. After another pause, he drank again, looking over the bodies laid out in front of him.

Outside of the military, he had never seen bodies with the evidence of so much violence. These men were brawlers, their knuckles thickened by hundreds and hundreds of tiny fractures, their skin marred all over by scars- thick red ropes of flesh, thin white lines of wounds long past, silvery traces of hurts healed over. These men had been fighting something, someone- but what?

~~

Sam glanced around the room, absorbing the firelight giving the wooden paneling a soft, honeyed tone. “This is it, isn’t it?” he asked Death, who nodded.

“This is ‘it’ indeed. I have been waiting for you boys for a long, long time.”

Dean huffed out a half-laugh of disbelief. At Death’s raised eyebrow he shook his head an explained, “Look, Death, you’ve done us a couple favors, yes. But we’ve died a bunch of times, you’ve had plenty of chances to drag us into the great beyond.”

“No Dean. You were not supposed to die then; it was never meant to be that way.”

“You aren’t even my reaper- I’ve seen her; she’s a pretty brunette chick,” Dean continued. Sam thought Dean was actually taking it rather well- they’d been dead for almost five minutes and he still hadn’t threatened to make a demon deal.

“This is your final reaping,” Death responded with very little inflection, his voice dry. “And after all you’ve done, all the lives you’ve saved, I would allow no other reaper to escort you across the veil.

~~

John Doe One had a heart of someone years younger and the liver of a man far, far older. Whatever he had seen and done, this man was trying to drink it all away.

The only anomaly found in John Doe Two were odd clumps of scar tissue surrounding his internal organs- if they had been on the dermis, the M.E. would have called them burn scars. Inside the body cavities, well… in his thirty two years of autopsies he’d never seen anything like it. These John Does were strange indeed.

~~

“This is it, right?” asked Sam, leaning forward in his chair. “No takebacks, no demon deals, no angels. We die this time; it all ends?”

“Yes,” replied Death calmly. “It all ends.”

“Wait,” intruded Dean. “Why are we hear? Why haven’t you zapped us off to get out robes and halo and all that mess?”

Death inclined his head regally, his hawkish nose casting a shadow over his sharp cheekbone. “My counterpart is still… missing-” he intoned quietly.

“What, God is still AWOL?” Dean snarked.

Death waited for Dean to sit back quietly in his deep chair. “Since the honor of welcoming you to the other side falls to me, I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you both for all that you’ve done. As you are aware, each soul generates its own heaven, yes? I believe in your case, something more unique is called for.”

“Like what?” asked Sam while Dean simultaneously spluttered, “I’m not going to hell?”

“No, gentlemen. Once was quite enough, don’t you think?” Death unfolded himself from his chair, his lean and bony frame draped in an exquisite double breasted pinstriped suit. He gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”

~~

After closing the steel refrigeration unit doors and sealing them shut with an echoing click, the coroner snapped off his latex gloves. These John Does has gotten under his skin; they had wiggled their way into the vulnerable and human part of his brain that he normally cut off from his work. These men had lived hard and seemingly thankless lives, sewing up their own injuries and working through broken bones.  They’d died together, and no one around town had any idea who they were. The only clue was an old black car found on the outskirts of town. It had last been registered to a Kansas address in the early eighties.

Before flipping off the droning hum of the overhead lights, the coroner sent out a description of the John Does to local law enforcement and entered them in the Missing Person’s Database.

A week later they had not been claimed.

After a month, the coroner still had not heard anything. The flask no longer lived in the drawer, but instead resided in the side pocket of his lab coat.

The black car was never claimed, and was sold at the spring police auction. The proceeds went to the widows and children of fallen officers.

After eight months John Doe 1 and 2 were cremated in the morgue of the local hospital. Their ashes were swept up and forgotten, as far too many homeless and poor men and women are.

Except they weren’t totally forgotten. As long as that old coroner lived he wondered, from time to time, what war those men fought. He wondered if they were partners, or brothers, or lovers, or friends. He wondered what they were trying so hard to forget, what they had seen, where they had been.He wondered why no one came forward to claim them; why no one looked. He wondered if anyone else had taken up the battle they had clearly waged. He wondered if there was anyone left to mourn them.

When the medical examiner died, the files remained unopened, gathering a thick layer of dust.

~~

Death opened the hewn oak door with a flourish, gesturing the Winchesters through. Dean clenched his jaw and preceded Sam through the doorway, determined to protect his brother even at this stage of the game- Death could have been lying about hell. Dean was still convinced he wasn’t destined for heaven.

Dean stopped abruptly, and Sam bumped into him, moving to stand side by side with Dean. There in front of them was a huge group of people, some smiling, some laughing, some standing sadly.

The group split in two, forming lines leading to a plain white door.

“Mom, Dad…” whispered Dean, looking at the front of the row of people.

Mary reached out to clasp his hands while John hugged Sam. “Dean, do you remember when you went back and I thought you were a nameless hunter? And I told you that I would never, ever want my kids to be hunters?”

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting his voice.

“I could not be more proud of you. You grew up into a stronger, better man than I have ever dreamed.”

Dean leaned in to kiss his mother’s cheek, slightly salty from tears.

He and Sam greeted Kevin and Mrs. Tran, Ellen and Jo and Ash (who winked and said they would see him again later), Sarah, Pamela, Frank, Kate, and even- “Benny!” said Dean in shock. The hugged, thumping each other on the back.

“What? How?” spluttered Dean. Sam shook Benny’s hand.

“Don’t rightly know, brother- but looks like the powers that be decided two tours of purgatory was enough for one man.”

Sam and Dean moved down the line of people, Death following patiently in their wake. It seemed like so many people they’d come into contact with was waiting for them. “Hey there, idjits,” came a familiar voice at the end of the line.

“Bobby!” Sam yelled before embracing the bearded man. He was holding the hand of Karen, the wife he’d been forced to kill twice.

“Wish you’d waited a mite longer,” the older man groused in mock exasperation. He stepped back. “I am so proud of you two,” he said, voice cracking

They were standing in front of the door. Death gestured to it. “In normal cases, each soul has a separate and individual heaven. But I have observed, and been _informed,”_ he shot a glance Bobby’s way, “that perhaps an exception should be made for you.

Dean and Sam separately recalled their last trip to heaven- their happiest memories, Dean’s sense of betrayal, Sam’s guilt.

“And so I will give you the choice,” Death tolled on. “You may precede together, or here you may part. I can tell you that whatever you choose, your heaven will be imminently enjoyable.

Dean knew what he wanted- it was the same thing he always wanted. It always came down to Sam. Sam healthy and happy and side by side with Dean. The rest of the world could go hang as long as Sammy was alright. That’s how it had always been, and that’s how it would stay for eternity.

Sam smiled a tight little smile, his dimples failing to appear. The last time they were here, his best memories had been of the moments he had escaped the clutches of his meddling family. Well, things had changed since then. Dean had died and had become a demon, and for the first time, Sam had been the one left behind instead of the one leaving.

Sam nodded to Death. “Thank you, sir, but sticking together got us all this far,” he gestured to the crowd at his back. “Who’re we to break that up now?” It was worth it, it was all worth it, to see the smile of unfettered job that spread over Dean’s face. He clapped his brother on the shoulder and they walked into their heaven. Together.

In a blink, they were sitting in the front seat of the Impala. They looked at each other. “Are we…?” Dean asked, not finishing the phrase.

“Yeah, I think so,” replied Sam. The doors slammed as they moved around back to the trunk. They opened it and lifted up the felt bottom. There, where all their weapons and kits and tools had been, was only their father’s journal and a pack of road maps. They grabbed them and slowly slid back into the car.

“So… now what?” asked Dean, looking at Sam.

Sam dimpled. “Anything we want. All those things we never got to do.” He opened one of the maps. “You ever been down in New Orleans during Mardi Gras?”

Dean smiled in response and gunned the engine. The brothers were side by side in the only home they had ever known with an endless stretch of road in front of them. There were no more hard decisions with no good answer, no more monsters or death or tears. Sam and Dean were finally free.

Death watched the Impala peel off down the road before quietly shutting the plain white door. There was a rustle of brown paper, and Death smiled around a bite of perfect apple pie.


End file.
